I’m sitting on my couch on a sunny Sunday afternoon. The day looks bright outside, but I haven’t opened the curtains. Abul Mogard was playing on Ivonne’s computer while she was in our room on the phone. Reza is eating something in her room; I can hear the spoon on porcelain.

I’m reading about the timeline of the far future, when continents collide to form neopangeanic mega-continents, when Aldeberan finally embraces its own death in a supernova visible in a daytime sky, when the sun expands to a size that will force the habitable zone toward Mars, heating the surface of the earth to a mere 2,000 degrees, when the heat death of the universe precedes the perfect environment for quantum tunneling that results in a new big bang, creating a new universe identical to our own.

I hope that means identical physics, not history. I can’t bear the thought of my future self having to do this again.

 

I stood in the living room today, listing to Feel First Life from the ASIP compilation posted a few days ago with no idea what to do with myself, where to go from here, what to do. Listless. A ghost. Today is really bad.

The last few days had more moments of clarity than not. I thought I had a scaffolding in place that could become the exoskeleton of whatever will be built in this crater, but that came crashing down, spectacularly, as a failed first attempt. And that’s cool. I have a lot of those to build and re-build and build again.

I’m having trouble seeing right now, seeing things for what they are, and I know that’s part of the grief process. I’m erratic. Overcompensating. I don’t want to let that small flicker of hope that has taken root behind my sternum fade and die out. I don’t. I want to hold on to it, to cherish it, to think that maybe something I’ll do during this rebuilding process will be enough to spark the warmth of a new hearth, but I know that’s grief talking. I know that’s grief whispering not to let it go. And I want grief here. I want something to tell me to hold on, that if I let go, it’ll be the biggest mistake of my life. I don’t want to let go. I don’t.

I have more work to do, work that won’t be easy, because nothing about us has ever been conventional, and this will be no exception. There will be people who will think me a fool. Maybe I am. I don’t know. But this is bigger than me, bigger than her, and that bigness is 12 and in the other room waiting for me to tell her it’s time to play Bendy and the Ink Machine, Chapter 3. I had to stop in the middle last night. I didn’t have it in me. I don’t have it now, either, but I’ll make it or I’ll find it and I’ll let her help me. She won’t know that’s what she’s doing, but I’ll appreciate it.

I am so lost.

She gave me a painting today for my birthday, a painting that I really loved from one of the artists in her show. It was a beautiful, thoughtful gift. And I can’t stop crying.

 

Vaguebooking is the worst. Out of respect to everyone involved, though, it’ll have to do. Nobody reads this right now, but eventually they will, and I don’t want to paint in colors that will dull and peel in time. I archived everything else. It felt like the right thing to do.

I’m going to write about Iceland soon; I have a few pictures to edit first, but I’ll get there in time. I have a lot of other things to write about, too.

I don’t know how I’m going to do this. I mean, I will, of course, but what the actual fuck? I had a pocket of clarity yesterday, a few hours when I felt something better. Stats called it being able to see through the cliffs, to the valley beyond. I liked that analogy.

I know most of this is going to be raw and unfiltered and rife with contradictions, but these are the natures of our hearts. I’m not sorry anymore.

So, I need to give myself permission to grieve, to be angry, to forgive, to grow. I don’t quite care right now about the judgments or perceptions of others; I have to take care of me, now.

I guess I just needed a marker, a signpost to look back on when I’ve rebuilt. Because I will.

 

Last night we played, I think, the final act.

I gave it everything I had.

I am annihilated.

 

 

I’m feeling down and shit is starting to sink in a bit.  Not that the plight is dire, just that somewhere an ego is bruised and I wonder if I’m going to make the same choices.  I’m terrified of that.

___

I lost my job in 2010.  Reza was almost four.  It was a particularly formative period that was marred by the self-doubt, immaturity,  and rationalizations of the man in her life who swore to be her supporter and protector.  (I’m getting a bit down on myself, but it’s ok, I gotta work through this.)  Instead, I drank a lot.  I piddled away trying to learn how to make music.  In fact, heh, the irony is not lost on me:  Just the other night, I was listening to a re-recording of a song I wrote during that year and a half, a song about her.  Ivonne teased me, asking me how often I listen to myself; it was a small green sprout from a land where crops are just starting to be sown again.  It felt nice.  But I digress.

I’ve spent the last day and a half fielding messages from previous coworkers and members of my team, all incredulous.  I haven’t the heart to tell them that I face crippling self-doubt that I may have deserved this, even though I know in my heart of hearts that there was no way to avoid this particular fate.  None.  That’s not hubris or assuaging of one’s ego, that’s the bare truth, naked to all eyes. I knew this was coming.  Still, I question.  What could I have done better?

I know those answers.  And when I look back on this in a few years, from a different place, it’ll be enough to know that I didn’t want to give what it would have taken to keep this job because I know now what I knew then, that it wouldn’t be worth that effort, not for this ignominious end.  Does that mean I’m weighing my family’s future against my own work ethic?  If so, how do I prove to myself – and to them – that my innate nature was correct?

These coworkers, these work friends, my team.  They wore black to work today in solidarity.  For me.  That meant a lot.  It was a small gesture and it’ll be forgotten in time, but for today, for tomorrow, when the leadership group will sit in that banal training room and be told the company line, it will be more than a bit vindicative that there will be a portion that will have questioned the wisdom of this move.  Seeds will have been planted; others will take root.  Others still will bloom and float away.  All in their own time.

But this fantasy, this not-so-secret desire for martyrdom needs to stay here, on these pages.  The real world awaits, outside the greenhouse of that toxic garden – and I find myself, for the first time in a long time, ready and willing to accept what will come.  The question is whether I will squander the same opportunity I once had… or will I own this moment.

____

I have a healthy fear of relapse.  I think about it in waves.  Sometimes it’ll be on my mind for two or three days, then weeks will go by before I can recall the last time I thought about having a drink.  I haven’t thought about it at all through this, except to remember what I did last time.  I feel a lot of shame for that.  But I’m not that person anymore and I won’t torture myself to recall my shitty behavior – but I wasn’t much of a dad then, nor a husband.  I was so self centered, so able and willing to wallow in my false sense of indignation, and if it didn’t feed those destructive animals, it wasn’t worth my time.

I’ve wanted to tell Ivonne how much I regret taking that stance back then; it really wasn’t that long ago, but it seems like a different life.  But I’m holding the space that we both need right now to continue to sow our seeds.  I think she knows, and I think there’s a real part of her that, while she remembers what it was like, isn’t worried that it’ll become that again.  I’m more than thankful for that.  Had this happened two years ago, different story.  Fuck, I’m glad it didn’t.

But without that chemical layer to hide under, I face harder and harsher realities than self-aggrandizing notions of doing what needs to be done to support my family, thinking that’s the measure of my part, my role – to check the box and kick back playing video games.  That’s not how this works.  That’s not how being a human works.  I clearly see the crossroads in front of us, in front of me, the opportunity to peer into the distance – away from the fog of instant gratification – to see the long game.  Which direction does happiness lie?  What are my options?  What do I want?

Because of that, I have a healthy fear of relapsing into ennui, of mailing it in once again and expecting a medal for minimum effort.  I want to work hard toward fulfillment and growth, toward the moment when I can look back with confidence and security that, while I was just as imperfect as the humans next to me, I did the right things, the good things, and I’ve made the right choices – regardless of what they are.  Because make no mistake, future me, all the choices in front of you are good ones.  Right ones.  Because you fear.  Don’t forget that.

The next brick in this structure is the one that becomes the cornerstone to that which will become your legacy, your mark on the world, the moment when you can look at your wrinkled face and thinning hair with the confidence of a life well lived.  We must, at some point, be willing to embrace the possibility of success, when success is defined only as making the journey.  Step.  Just… just step.  There you go.  One more.  Then another.  See, they build on each other and they become a path, a compass heading, a place of newness, growth, and self-actualization.  This is the time to grasp what that should be in order to be satisfied in the journey.  Because, don’t kid yourself:  The road you are about to travel, no matter which route you choose, will not have been the one you expected.

____

I don’t feel so down anymore.

____

I told my oldest friend how much he means to me today.  I needed to say it.  He needed to hear it.  I walked into the kitchen and wept.